Baby Doe
by Jacinda
Summary: Jordan investigates the violent death of an abandoned infant Will probably become WJ, but no relationships as of yet . FIN
1. Virgin Snow

I carried the tiny blue body bag close to my body to shield the tiny infant inside from the reporters and flash of the camera. I was slipping and sliding in the deep, virgin snow. I walked as fast as I could; I accidentally walked straight into one of the police officers. The tall African American man wrapped his arm around my torso and helped me back to my van. He helped me firmly secure the tiny body to the gurney. He said it was a tragedy; I readily agreed with him as he helped me out of the van. I thanked him for all his help and promptly began to drive as far away from the scene as possible.

I had to remind myself out loud that I needed to watch how fast I was driving. The first snow of the season was always the worst to drive in; statistically, it normally carried the most fatalities. I reminded myself that it was my job to deliver the tiny body to the morgue . . . not that the body would find any peace there.

Sydney met me at the loading dock; he was quick to help me out of the van. Nigel must have radioed Sydney the details of the case. The details were a little bit too shocking for me to clearly express in a rational tone; this case already had me wound up. I already felt deep ties to this case; I was going to give this baby boy that was abandoned at St. Ines a name. I wasn't going to let a baby that might have been hours old go without a name; it would be my gift to him on his birthday.

I carried the body bag close to my body. Sydney asked if I was okay; I was at a loss of words. These cases were always hard; the heightened emotions of this Christmas season just exacerbated my emotions over the case.

We laid the tiny baby on the autopsy table. Sydney asked me to cut; he said he'd never worked on an infant before. I was thankful that I only worked on infants once in a blue moon. I showed Sydney the fine skills that are required to look for truth and answers within such a tiny body. I stopped to explain what I was doing and why; Sydney nodded. He asked questions that I patiently answered. I was starting my New Years resolution early this year; I was going to be the patient teacher that I should have been for . . . I still couldn't say her name . . . and Peter. I was going to do better; I wasn't going to isolate people just because I found their personalities nothing less than nauseating. Sydney had thanked me after the marathon autopsy lasting well over six hours. I wasn't sure if he was thanking me for my words of advice and wisdom or thanking me for finally letting him go home.

I sat in my office. I wrote all my findings from autopsy; the string of facts did nothing to ease the anger I felt.

_Infant John Doe is a male approximately 2 to 12 hours perinatal. General survey indicates ligature marks encircling the lower neck with evidence of a collapsed trachea. General survey indicates that the wounds occurred following labor. Internal survey indicates fully expanded lungs with regions of collapse. Internal inspect of the larynx and trachea indicates the airway was completely obstructed due to a traumatic crushed trachea. Tissue samples and toxicology are pending. Jordan M. Cavanaugh, MD Medical Examiner for the State of Massachusetts._

This baby was alive after he was birthed. Someone heard him cry; I was going to find that someone and figure out exactly why this tiny life was ended so violently.

To Be Continued . . .


	2. Merry Christmas, Baby Doe

I yawned as I began to thinly slice body tissues to make slides. The laboratory assistants normally did this tedious, boring job, but tonight, I wanted answers to come sooner than later. I was willing to work doggedly on what was Christmas Eve; it wasn't like I had any plans. I didn't even have anyone to make plans with; my antics last spring had single handedly isolated me from most of the relationships that I used to have. I rarely talked to Lily, Big, Garret, or Nigel. I hadn't heard from my father since the morning after James died. Woody . . . my relationship with him ceased to exist. I hadn't heard from a detective yet, so I assumed that Woody had been assigned to this case.

The thin tissue slices were adhered to slides and dyed in a myriad of different stains. I set them in a rack to dry; I began to focus my attention on tubes of blood I took from Baby Doe. I began to load the samples into a variety of machines. It felt good to momentarily get lost in my work; it felt good to momentarily forget that this was the body of an infant that never got a chance.

I didn't want to begin to confront the feelings that were beginning to resurface. I thought I had buried these feelings years ago; I should have known that burying feelings didn't make them go away. I hadn't dare let these feelings resurface; I couldn't. I battled to regain my professionalism; professionalism was the only way that I made it through the day. I could trudge through my personal problems later.

I rested in my office while I was waiting for my blood samples to finish running and my tissue samples to dry. I had grown accustom to closing my door; it provided a little peace. It wasn't like people were actively seeking me out anymore. I had trampled on way too many feelings for that to happen. I wasn't even sure how to begin to mend all that I had broken.

I pulled my hair out of the rubberband and let it fall down my back. I ran my fingers through the tangled, wavy mess. I pulled off my scrub top to reveal a tight t-shirt. I grabbed my blanket and laid down on my couch. I wasn't as mentally tired as I was physically tired. I tried to drift into sleep, but there was knocking on my office door. I didn't make a sound. I didn't really want to talk to anyone right now. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Better yet, I wanted to spend my time in a dreamless slumber. I slammed my eyelids closed as the door creaked open. I immediately began to fall into a light sleep; I had been working for well over twenty-four hours. I knew my body was ready to take advantage of any chance to sleep; my mind wasn't quite as ready, but body won over mind this time.

"Jordan, wake up," Woody said loudly causing me to jolt into a sitting position. That's about as good as our relationship had been over the last few months; he either avoided me or treated me with something falling very short of professional courtesy. I ran my fingers over my forehead; the sudden jolt caused my head to throb a little more than it already had been when I laid down.

Woody stared at me; he didn't speak another word. He was waiting for me to tell him all the facts he needed so he could get as far away from me as possible. I normally just had my dictation forwarded to him; I hadn't done the dictation tonight. I was too emotionally charged to verbalize the story of a Baby Doe.

"Baby boy . . . probably 2 to 12 hours old . . . ligature marks . . . fully inflated lungs," I stated. Just looking at the child was enough to make a case for murder; that's all I could do. Trace would be responsible for working up the evidence on the blankets and laundry basket Baby Doe was found in. Garrett warned me that I was to take a hands-off approach to Woody's cases; I had successfully managed to do just that. Woody made it very easy to take a hands-off approach.

"Anything else?" Woody asked as he leaned up against my desk. I returned to my supine position on the couch. The conversation was already over; I knew it would end with him asking me to forward my dictation to his office. I would agree, and he would leave without another word.

My relationship with Woody wasn't nearly as important as the baby in the crypt. The life of every baby should be celebrated. I learned that the hard way so many years ago; it was so long ago that sometimes I felt like it just might have been another lifetime. I found out I was pregnant exactly five days after I ran from Boston. It was five days after I ran from the frantic voice of Tom Crane's desperate wife; all she wanted was for his mistress, me, to leave her and her husband the hell alone. I did just that; I ran across the country. I figured that was far enough away to give them the room to rebuild their relationship and give me enough room to figure out how to fall out of love. I miscarried three months later in a dirty apartment in Seattle. They say you can't miss what you don't know; that was a line of crap if I've ever heard one.

"Jordan, can you pay attention please?" Woody asked a little more loudly this time.

"Sorry . . . no . . . nothing else. I'll forward the preliminary report to you as soon as I finish it up," I replied. There was a distinct hitch in my voice; my normally articulate speech was sloppy at best. I rolled on my stomach and buried my head into a small pillow. I hoped he would go away; this was the first time during my long period of isolation that I actually wanted to be alone. There were so many times that I longed for someone to talk to; I had taken to talking to one of my houseplants out of sheer desperation. The plant died about two weeks ago. I took it as a sign that what I had to say probably wasn't what anything, including plants, wanted to hear.

"You okay?" I heard Woody ask.

"I'll get that report to you before noon," I replied as I lifted my head out of the pillow.

"I didn't ask about the report," Woody clarified.

"Sorry, I'm just tired," I replied lamely. I knew I didn't sound anywhere near believable, but right now, I hoped that he really didn't care. I was convinced that he didn't. I was convinced that no one did.

The door to my office opened and closed. He was gone as quickly as he came. I buried my head into the tiny pillow and cried. The tears quickly gave way to sleep. My sleep was burdened by images of home pregnancy tests proclaiming that I was pregnant. Back then I hadn't known what to make of my pregnancy. I didn't feel different; I was under the assumption that the minute you get pregnant something is supposed to change. I didn't feel changed; I felt a little lonelier, but I didn't physically feel different. I didn't vomit in the morning. My breasts didn't feel different; my stomach was just as flat as it was in the days preceding. There was no visible change. In the following weeks, my stomach developed a little pouch and my breasts became fuller, but I didn't look pregnant. My pregnancy would end far before I would ever know what it was really like to feel pregnant. That was years ago, but time hadn't seemed to heal all wounds.

I awoke to sun screaming through my window. I made my way to the lab to look at my slides. I hid at the workbench in the far corner of the lab. I silently processed all the tissue samples; I documented in triplicate all the absolutely normal tissue. Everything was normal; everything about the baby was normal except for the fact that the baby boy was dead.

I poured over laboratory work. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. The baby was a little anemic, but that could be a reflection of pour nutrition on the part of the mother. Despite a slightly low birth weight, someone out there gave birth to a perfect little baby boy that was now in the care of the morgue.

By the time that I got back to my office, the daylight I had awoken to was giving way to darkness. I quickly dictated my report; I put a rush on its processing. I asked the recording to forward the contents to Detective Woodrow Hoyt and Dr. Garrett Macy.

My annual poinsettia from the governor's office was sitting on the corner of my desk. The morgue was empty; everyone else had families to go home to. I picked up the poinsettia and walked out to my car. I drove to the scene of the crime. I walked across the snow covered field to a clearing right in front of the statue of St. Ines. She was the saint of bodily purity. That baby was nothing less than pure. I placed my poinsettia in the exact place where Baby Doe was found. I stood in the deep, white snow for a few minutes before turning around and heading back to my car. The tears streamed down my face; they threatened to freeze due to the frigid wind that whipped around my head.

I drove to the Pogue. It was manned by a single college student that wasn't going home this year. I told John to leave; I gave him fifty-dollars and told him to get his butt over to his girlfriend's parent's house. He smiled and told me to not work too hard. I wouldn't have to work hard; I was the only one in the bar.

I poured myself a pint of Guinness and wondered exactly how I could ever let things get this bad.

"Merry Christmas, Baby Doe," I whispered to no one in particular.


	3. Little Angels

Christmas Eve slipped into Christmas Day. I was still at the bar; at six in the morning, my tired body fought to overcome the insomnia that had plagued the majority of the last three months. I poured over the accounting books; I check and rechecked my math to make sure that this unexpected surplus was indeed real. At eight in the morning I was satisfied with my ability to correctly work a calculator.

A deliveryman pounded on the door. He handed me a box and wished me a happy holiday season. The box was heavy; I set it on the nearest table. It was postmarked from Ireland. I ran my fingers over the labeling before I tore into the box. It was a nativity set; it was a beautiful nativity set. Hand carved from pine; I touched each of the little pieces before setting them back in the box in favor of the note inside the box.

_Jordan,_

_Merry Christmas. I knew that you would spend your day in the bar; I don't understand why you do that to yourself. You should really be spending more time with your friends and less time worrying about the bar. You should really consider listening to me one of these times . . . not because I'm your father, because I love you. I might be angry with you, but I still love you._

_Have a merry Christmas, Jordan. If you go to visit Mom, tell her that I love her. Take care of yourself. I'll try to come home soon._

_I love you,_

_Dad_

_PS Take care of my bar._

My first reaction was to cry. I didn't have anyone to spend the holidays with; my relationships were far too strained. I truly believed I had gotten what I deserved; I found out what happens when you constantly trample on the feelings of others. I missed my father so much; right now, I needed my father so much.

My second reaction was to laugh at his insistence that I don't spend so much time at the Pogue. He told me all that only to tell me that I needed to take care of his bar. It made me smile; this bar had become more than just a bar in Boston . . . it had become something of a home. It was the only place that afforded me the comfort that I was searching for. I felt a little closer to Dad every time I walked through the door.

I gave in to my first reaction. I cried as I looked at the exquisite nativity set; it was an odd gift to give someone that had so little faith. Faith was hard to come by; every time I thought my world was on track, something happened to knock me off balance. I wasn't even sure where to begin looking for that faith. Life seemed like it was nothing short than a cruel joke that I was destined to endure alone.

I gathered the nativity set and drove back to the morgue. I arranged the intricate little pieces on a shelf in my office. I held Gabriel, the angel, in my hand. I walked into the crypt and opened the drawer housing Baby Doe.

"I think you could use this a little more than I could," I whispered as I placed the wooden angel next to the tiny body wrapped in a sheet. The tears fell down my face; I didn't feel the need to stop them. There would be no one around to see them; it was safe to cry here.

"It's Christmas today. You should have been celebrating today; your family should have been holding you near. I'm really sorry about that. I'm really sorry that I can't do anything for you until someone in Trace decides to start working on your evidence," I said. I quietly talked to the tiny body. I couldn't bring myself to lower the sheet; I wasn't sure if I could bear to see all the wounds that I had inflicted on his body, let alone the wounds that someone else had inflicted on his body.

"I'm not going to let this case grow cold. I'm going to make sure that you get justice. I'm going to make sure you get the funeral you deserve. There's this cemetery in California. It's owned by a lady that had devoted her life to giving 'Baby Doe's a place to rest. I'm going to call her tomorrow. I want you to be somewhere that peaceful," I said as I stood next to the drawer.

"I'm sure he'd like that." I jumped when I heard Woody's voice.

"I didn't realize that you were there," I replied as I tried to hide my tears. I wondered exactly how long he had been watching.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Detective?" I asked. I could see him cringe when I addressed him so formally.

"I saw you at St. Ines yesterday . . . I just wondered if you were okay. You didn't really look okay last night," Woody replied.

"The saint of bodily purity. I think that might be the only saint I ever knew . . . except for St. Katherine . . . the great martyr. I only know that because I went to St. Katherine Elementary School. Someone heard this baby cry," I replied. It was a confused rambling. I wasn't even sure what I was trying to say; maybe that's why my plant died.

"Why don't you call it a day and go home?" Woody asked. The inflection in his voice told me that it wasn't a suggestion; it was more of a question. He should have known the answer.

"I was going to go around to the hospitals . . . see if anyone came in with obvious signs of labor without a baby or placenta," I replied as I dried my eyes on my sleeve.

"You look tired," Woody commented. He stood in the doorway. It was as close as he could bring himself to me; I understood.

"It's not tired . . . it's insomnia. I should really get going . . . I need to open the bar this evening," I quickly explained as I ran my fingers across Gabriel once more before I closed the drawer.

"You want some company?" Woody offered. It sounded forced.

"No, my badge is working fine, Detective," I replied as I quickly brushed past him. I told myself that Baby Doe came before my messed up relationship with Woody. I didn't mean to be callous, but I felt obligated to give the baby a little bit of closure. I probably was also working towards giving myself a little bit of closure.

"Jordan, I'm still Woody," he replied as he followed me down the hallway, "Why is this case getting you so worked up? I thought you didn't like children."

_There's a dead baby in that drawer; that in itself is something to get worked up about. I love children. I wanted to be a heart surgeon so I could help children. I could have had my own child; part of me has always wanted a child. I probably would have even taken Baby Doe in as my own if his parent or parents had placed him on my doorstep. Did you ever imagine that, Woody? _My thoughts screamed at me, but I didn't dare say a word.

His words stung me; I was blinded by the tears falling down my face as I quickly got my things together and put on my coat. He stood in the doorway of my office; normally, by now he would have gotten frustrated with me and left. I don't know what possessed him to stay while I was on the verge of melting down in front of him.

"I'm sorry . . . I must have said something wrong," Woody said. He stayed glued to the door frame.

"It's not that . . . it's that you don't know me at all," I said as I brushed past him again. I could hear him rush to catch up with me.

"Jordan, why do you do this?" I could hear him say breathlessly as the elevator doors closed before he could reach me. I thought he slowed down; if he wanted to catch me, he would have easily been able to. My stride was much smaller than his.

I spent the next four hours driving from hospital to hospital. I even went to all the free clinics that I knew of. I spoke Spanish and a choppy version of Hmong to communicate the urgency of letting me know if Baby Doe's mother had been there. At three in the afternoon on Christmas Day, I drove back to the Pogue empty handed. Well, I wasn't empty handed . . . every hospital and clinic promised to call if a woman came in with septicemia came into their care.

I opened the door and went on with my business. I began to go through the inventory. I had already done that two days ago, but I needed something to fill my time. I knew the bar would be empty tonight; normal people had families to be with or friends to celebrate with.

I began to daydream about tiny feet and tiny toenails. I wondered what my child would have looked like; I would have wanted him or her to have Tom's smile. Tom had the most beautiful smile; it lit up his face. I would have wanted him or her to be carefree like I was so many years ago when I didn't obsess over my mother. I told myself that that was a different person in a different lifetime. I wasn't a reflection of that Jordan Cavanaugh anymore. I wasn't sure exactly what I had become; home-wrecker . . . I did break Garrett and Renee up . . . tease . . . I teased Nigel and Woody with things that I would not give . . . liar . . . I lied to Lily, Garrett, and Bug. I couldn't think of a positive thing about myself. I wondered when I stopped loving myself.

I remembered being terrified to tell Tom; I never told Tom. I didn't want to hurt him anymore. All I remember is being obsessed with baby names, I spent the greater part of my time trying to figure out what would be the perfect name for my child. I loved the name Mia for a little girl; it was Italian for mine. That baby was the only thing that would have really been mine. I had a hard time coming up with names for a boy . . . Ryan . . . Carter . . . Isaac. I would never have a child of my own to name. I resigned myself to that even though the emergency room doctor said that it was common for woman to lose their first pregnancy. Common didn't make it hurt any less.

I sat alone in my bar sipping ginger ale while a baby lay dead in the morgue and the rest of the world was too caught up in celebration to care.


	4. Gabriel Patrick

He sent me flowers; the card said that he was sorry for whatever it was that he said. I dumped them in the garbage can. I knew it wasn't fair to punish him for what he didn't understand, but I was frustrated with everything today. I called all the hospitals again; I called all the women's shelters and clinics. Nothing. I even asked to process all the female corpses brought in.

I began the paperwork for the petition to release Baby Doe into my custody. Lois Carver called me to say that I was doing a good thing; Renee Walcott even promised to push it through within the afternoon. As women . . . as mothers, they understood. I called the charity in California; they said they would be happy to place Baby Doe in their special cemetery. The agreement was that I needed to pay for Baby Doe's transportation; I also needed to name Baby Doe. I could do that; I had already contacted my financial advisor. I planned to send Baby Doe with a substantial donation.

I sat in my office. I scribbled different names on a notepad. Boy names were so much harder; I wrote down my standard favorites, but they didn't seem special enough for the baby in the crypt. Any other time, I would have called my father to ask for advice. I don't think he knew just how much I counted on him. He knew everything about Irish culture . . . the meaning of Gaelic names. Dad would have known the perfect name for Baby Doe.

"Gabriel . . . God is my strength. Maybe Dad's money didn't go to waste when he sent me to Catholic school," I said to the nothingness that surrounded me.

I got up and went to the crypt. It was late at night; everyone else had gone home . . . the Pogue was being watched by a few of my best bartenders tonight. No one would miss me if I spent the evening with Baby Doe. I opened Baby Doe's drawer.

"I hope you like the name Gabriel. I'm not sure what your middle name is . . . do you even want one? I'll think of one," I said to the tiny baby. The wooden angel was still next to him.

"Gabriel Ryan . . . Gabriel Patrick . . . Gabriel Thomas . . . Gabriel Patrick. I think I like Gabriel Patrick. Patrick is very Boston . . . very Irish. I hope you like it. I'm sorry if you don't," I said as I ran my fingers over the wooden angel, "Everyone else might forget, but I won't. Someday I'll find your parents. I'll make sure that they never forget you, Gabriel Patrick."

"I imagined my child looking something like you do. My child wasn't lucky either, but you probably know that because he or she . . . he or she is in the same place you are," I said as I stumbled across the last words in my sentence, "My therapist in Seattle told me not to think of it as a child, but a fetus. I thought of it as a child from the minute that pregnancy test was positive. I wasn't as lucky as your mother . . . my baby was taken away just as fast as it was given."

I took a deep breath.

"I was thinking about it the other day . . . I was thinking about you this morning after I went over all your evidence. I would have taken you into my home, Gabriel. I would have given you the life that I wanted to give my own child," I said as I removed the sheet from the tiny body. I ran my fingers down the tiny arm and across his tiny palm.

"Sometimes, I wonder if having a child would have changed my life. It would have . . . but what would I have become is what I'm interested in knowing," I said.

"You would have been a good mother," Woody said. He was standing in the doorway much like he had twenty-four hours ago.

"You must think I'm crazy . . . I probably am crazy," I replied in reference to the elaborate confession that Gabriel was witness to.

"No, I don't think you're crazy. I think you are lonely . . . I think you are punishing yourself for something that was none of your doing," Woody replied. He remained in the door frame. It was a safe distance. I think that was the closest that I would want him right now.

"Jordan, how long ago were you . . . um," Woody stammered as he looked at the floor.

"Seven years ago . . . February sixteenth at five in the evening. I was leaving work and started to cramp," I explained. My eyes remained glued to the tiny body.

"When you were the mistress?" Woody asked. I almost laughed at how nicely he tried to describe my place in the broken marriage.

"When I was the lying whore that almost broke up a marriage," I clarified.

"It's hard to be mad at you when you are already so damn good at being mad at yourself," Woody replied.

"I've screwed up a lot. I just wanted to do the right thing . . . when I think I'm doing the right thing, I'm wrong. When I actually do the right thing, I'm punished," I replied, "I've given up my mother cold turkey . . . after James, I had I not started the whole mess . . . he'd be . . ."

"Don't take all the credit for that. Malden and James had their hands in there. If I remember correctly, James was the one that got the ball rolling," Woody replied.

"But still . . . I spent Christmas alone in a bar that was open but empty. Dad is in Ireland; I don't really know how to apologize to anyone at work, so I haven't spent time with them for weeks. Even the Christmas after Mom died was better than this Christmas," I lamented as I gently covered Gabriel with the white sheet.

"Is he ready to make his way to California?" Woody asked as I moved the wooden angel closer to the tiny angel. I gently closed his drawer after pausing for a moment to survey the tiny, cloaked body.

"I'm going with him on Monday," I replied. It was four days away.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Woody asked. He was probably trying to figure out if I was going to come back home. That was a subject that I had mentally debated several times; there was a very vocal part of my mind that thought it might be nice to have a fresh start in a city thousands of miles away from Boston. Another part of me would always remain drawn to Boston despite its reminders of my mother, Malden, and James.

"I'm in need of a vacation. I was going to spend a few days out there. I talked to a FBI agent I used to work with; he's going to make sure that I don't get myself into any trouble. It's probably going to be a full-time job for Haley. I was going to spend a few days laying on the beach and relaxing," I replied. I did need a vacation; I could feel my professional exterior beginning to crumble. I needed a few days to regroup.

"Jordan, why are you doing this?" Woody asked.

"I'm spending time with Agent Haley because he was a good friend when I needed him," I replied as I began to put my coat on. That was probably a little too rough; it took me far too long to realize exactly how good of a friend Woody was. Drew was a good friend. He was one of the only people that fought to save my life despite how much I had screwed up the Digger case. We had kept in touch; occasional emails and telephone calls. He had offered to keep me company in California; I had accepted. Garrett told me to take the time to recuperate; he said that he wanted the 'old' Jordan to come home. He said that he missed me. I missed him too, but I wasn't sure if our relationship could be mended. I had changed; Garrett had changed.

"No, not that. Why did you name Baby Doe? Why are you going with him to California?" Woody asked. He blocked my exit from my office.

"Closure. It's time for closure," I replied.

"Are you going to be okay alone?" Woody asked.

"Yeah, I'll be okay. I'll be back in a few days," I replied. He didn't look satisfied with my answer. He stood still waiting in the doorway as if he was waiting for me to say something. I think he wanted me to invite him to California; I think he wanted to believe that watching me grieve would ensure that I would come back to Boston. If I was going to breakdown, I wanted to do it in the privacy of an anonymous hotel in a city so large that everyone is anonymous. Haley would only be a presence for a single day. I would have the majority of my vacation to sort things out and say good-bye to someone that I never really had.

"Be careful, Jordan," Woody replied as he turned to leave.

"I will be," I replied. I watched him walk away. Part of me wanted to run after him . . . the other part was thankful for the solitude. I didn't want to cry in front of him; I didn't want to appear as weak as I felt. I had let him in once before; I stood by passively while Woody dated Devan. That was the little shove that I needed to push me over the edge. It made me feel really lonely because I did believe that Woody was the only person in my life that I could count on. I wasn't sure if I could do that again; not while I was finally beginning to mourn all those that I had lost. I wasn't nearly as strong as everyone wanted to believe that I was.


	5. Looking Forward

The weather was mild, but nearly anything was mild compared to the subzero temperatures in Boston. It was a sunny morning; I took a cab to the cemetery. A priest was awaiting my arrival; I had asked for a short memorial for the tiny infant that I had accompanied to California. The memorial was more for me than Gabriel, but I needed something to help me cope.

I wore a black suit. It was one of the fanciest items in my closet. I wore my hair straight. I would remember these little details for years to come.

Last night, I had dreams about my baby last night. I relived every agonizing moment of my miscarriage. I remember the way the cramps spread throughout my abdomen; they were so intense that I doubled over in pain. I drove home before I noticed that I was bleeding. Then, I drove frantically to the emergency room. I thought that after the first trimester most babies lived; I had just entered my second trimester. I guess I forgot everything that I had learned during medical school. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

I stood at the graveside. There was a light breeze that caused my hair to flutter as the breeze changed directions. I listened to the prayers the priest said; the priest chatted with me as we watched the cemetery workers bury the baby. The priest asked me to work to find Gabriel Patrick's mother; he asked me to work toward mending myself. He said that there was a distinct sadness in my eyes; there was something that was burdening my soul. I told him that I had lost a child years ago, but the sadness has never left me. The priest told me that I may have lost a child, but I gained an angel. That didn't make me feel any better, but it put everything in perspective . . . that was years ago and today was today.

I took a cab back to my hotel. I took off my suit and put on a bathing suit. It was actually a few small triangles of fabric sewn together. I walked out on to the isolated beach and laid in the sun with so many things on my mind.

"His mother was a teenage prostitute . . . her pimp took her to the hospital when he found her barely breathing. She was supposed to meet a john, but her fever was so high that she was barely conscious. She died yesterday not too long after being admitted to the hospital. We are running a DNA sampled, but her pimp said that she was pregnant a few days ago. He wasn't sure what happened to the baby," Woody said as he sat in a chair next to me. He was in a suit; it looked like he came here straight from work.

"You could have called instead of flying across the country," I replied. I wished that I hadn't heard Gabriel Patrick's story. It just compounded that he wasn't wanted; he was thrown away by a child that didn't recognize the miracle that had grown inside of her. The answers weren't comforting. That was probably because I would have done anything to change the outcome of my pregnancy. I guess it boiled down to two different women in two different worlds.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," Woody replied, "For as much as you want to be alone, you weren't ever really alone."

"I just needed sometime to begin to put my life back together," I replied. It was the truth; it was hard to begin to deal with all my issue when someone was constantly looking over my shoulder and telling me what lines to stay within. Garrett meant well, but his concern bordered on oppression. Lily wanted to give me all the advice in the world, but there were some things that I needed to figure out for myself. The others avoided me; I guess they were probably afraid of getting trapped in my downward spiral.

"You've been like this for months. It's a little scary watching you stop eating, stop sleeping, and work 24/7. Somewhere along the line you stopped caring about your victims . . . until Baby Doe. Jordan, I want you back . . . I'm sick of this . . . I'm sick of pretending not to care because you are so emotionally stunted," Woody said. He tied my bikini straps so I could turn over on my back. Every time he touched me . . . I still felt something even if I willed myself not to.

"It's hard to care about each of them. That's how I lost myself the first time . . . I lived for the victims. When I finished helping them, I didn't know how to help myself. I needed to find myself. No one seems to like what I found," I replied sharply. I found a quiet, scared woman that wanted nothing more than to know that someone loved her. I spent most of my life feeling abandoned; everyone I loved, I lost. Every time I let someone in, they hurt me beyond repair. I found a woman that liked solitude to some degree; I found a woman that could be deeply meditative. I was a mother without a child; I did everything possible to hide that even if it meant not being true to myself. No one would ever guess that I could have been a mother; no one would have guessed that I longed for a baby. I guess everyone wanted me to be the uncontrollable spitfire that I used to hide who I really was. I used to live through the victims; now, I lived for myself.

"I know, but you've shut yourself away. I don't understand . . . I don't understand the 'new' Jordan," Woody replied as he wiped some sand off my arm. His sunglasses hid his eyes; I wanted to pull them off and watch his eyes search my body trying to find something familiar . . . a remnant of what I used to be.

"I'm sick of being hurt, Woody. I'm sick of living in the past. My only goal is just to make it through today," I replied.

"That's a really shitty goal . . . there must be something that you look forward to," he replied.

"I look forward to yoga class on Wednesdays and Sex and the City on Tuesday," I replied. It did sound lame.

"Yoga and horny middle age woman . . . geez, Jordan. Let's work on that," Woody replied with a smile. I didn't know if that meant he wanted to try to rebuild what I had watched crumbled the second Devan came on to scene. I didn't know if I could let him in the way I had before.

"I'm hungry," Woody complained, "Let's go get something to eat."

"When does your plane leave?" I asked as I sat up.

"I was meaning to talk to you about that . . . there's really no plane that goes back to Boston tonight without connecting in fifteen airports on the way. I was hoping . . ."

"You sleep on the couch . . . don't you dare wake me up before seven," I replied. I guess some things never change no matter how hard I fought it.

"Is it a full size couch?"

"We'll negotiate later. What do you want for supper?" I asked as we gathered my things and walked back to the hotel. He was carrying a small suitcase . . . _over night, my butt._

"Hamburgers or something."

Some things never change but hopefully they evolve with time.


End file.
